


Monster

by starstruck1986



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-10 23:36:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7013041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starstruck1986/pseuds/starstruck1986
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I am a joy to know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Monster

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the hp_mhealthfest at Livejournal 2016. 
> 
> Prompt: 
> 
> Mental Health Issue: Borderline Personality Disorder; they don't understand what they did to him by calling him thick, by never giving him attention, by making fun of him. Would love to see a Ron with a severely unstable sense of self (more so than at any point during canon) and to see him cope by means of self harm. Volatile. Unpredictable.
> 
> Warnings: Borderline Personality Disorder, Self-harm, attempted suicide, angst.

I am a monster. I am an angel. I am a bully. I am a victim. I am fire. I am ice. I am everything, and you'll never know which me you're getting.  
  
I'm a joy to know, right?  
  


* * *

  
  
Ron rested his forehead against his closed office door. His head was pounding and his entire body ached from exhaustion. Work wasn't helping.  
  
He reached down and turned the key in the lock and then walked to his desk. He set the key down in its place. He'd long given up considering the irony of the fact that the Ministry still issued office keys given that magic would get a persistent person where they wanted to go regardless of a bit of shaped metal.  
  
But it would serve his purpose now.  
  
With a dry swallow, he sat down behind his desk and pulled open one of the drawers. He slid his fingers under the layers of rubbish which had accumulated and felt around. It came quickly, as it always seemed to, and when he pulled it out he didn't need to look at it to know the intricacy of the design on the sheath or the tiny jewel set in the handle.  
  
He'd had it for years. He knew what his brother would say if he knew what intent his gift was being used with, but he'd long since stopped feeling guilty about that.  
  
Their mum knew nothing about the hidden gifts that Bill had given his siblings – treasure deemed to be so worthless to the Bank that they let their treasure hunters keep it. And a tiny dagger checked for curses and charms had been a thrilling gift to receive aged fifteen. Unbeknownst to either Harry or Hermione, it had accompanied Ron on their Horcrux hunt, carried close to his body at all times. It had become an extension of his hand in recent years.  
  
He exhaled a long breath, blinked a few times and then slipped the knife free of its protective cover. He pulled his robes up to waist level and spread his legs.  
  
It was the only place he could harm where nobody ever seemed to look. His skin was so pale that any marks showed up without much effort. At least tucked away on his inner thigh there was only one person who might notice it; if she had so far then she'd not said a word about it.  
  
He gripped the knife tightly in his fingers and aimed the blade. He dragged it over a fresh piece of skin – not scarred – and grit his teeth. He both hated and loved the pain. It was so many different things on different days. Sometimes it was comfort, sometimes it was anger. Sometimes it was the only way to carry on.  
  
Today, though, it was desperation. He cut again, frustrated at the paltry, tiny swell of blood which had risen from the first.  
  
And after the second there was a third, a fourth, a fifth – he carried on until the blood ran and threatened to spill onto the carpet. He watched the drips wavering and felt some pressure loosen in his chest.  
  
He chucked the knife down on the desk and yanked open another draw. He pulled free a wad of tissue and blotted the blood with it. He watched the paper soak it up and exhaled again. His chest loosened further. He picked up his wand and properly cleaned the cuts, which stung like all hell, and then cast a sloppy healing spell on them. They faded to thin pink lines, which he knew would fade further to silver and eventually melt into the paleness of his skin as much as they were able.  
  
Ron dropped his robes to his ankles and cleaned the knife, too. He re-sheathed it and put it in his bag – he had an entire weekend of family merriment to get through. He was going to need it and he didn't want to have to excuse himself to trek to his office every time he needed a hit.  
  
Getting to his feet, Ron picked up the bloody tissue and squashed it in his fist. Even with the cuts healed, there was a pleasant sting as his legs rubbed together. That was enough for now.  
  
***  
  
“Ron?”  
  
Ron's stomach plummeted as he heard Kingsley's voice. Heat prickled all over his body.  
  
 _Oh god. They know. I'm screwed. Shit._  
  
A million protests sprang to mind – he could do better, he could buck up, he could _be_ that amazing Auror again. He had no idea how, but he could.  
  
“I wanted to say good job on that case this morning. The errant duellers. Honest to bloody Merlin, people seem to just get more and more stupid. I heard good things, in fact, extreme praise. Someone said you were in between them with a shield charm coming out of both hands keeping them contained?”  
“Something like that.” Ron shifted his bag on his shoulder. Suddenly the knife felt like a dead weight.  
“No, credit where credit's due, Ron. You did well. We should talk.”  
“About what?”  
  
 _Fuck._  
  
“Nothing bad – no, I was thinking we have a few spaces opening up soon thanks to retirement, residual insanity... and I thought perhaps you were long due for a promotion.”  
“Oh.”  
“Well, I'll not keep you now – It's Friday night! I'll see you this weekend at the wedding?”  
“Sure thing – looks like it's going to be a good one.”  
“Be strange to attend a Weasley wedding not at The Burrow.”  
“Ah, well... my mum had to concede that Angelina's family are as big as ours and the sheer fallout from the cousins alone...”  
  
Kingsley laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, that'll be you soon enough.”  
  
Ron swallowed and nodded. It had been a long, long engagement and only they knew why – Ron was too unwell, and Hermione wasn't sure she wanted to marry someone who could veer between joy and devastation in the blink of an eye. Or at least, that's why Ron thought she hadn't pressed it.  
  
He'd had no such respite from his family, however.  
  
They had no idea, but after every nag and every teasing session, he went and cut to cope with it. Their criticism killed him. It always had. He supposed that was how he was in the mess he was, because he was the baby and they had never so much as thought twice about how their words and actions might hurt him.  
  
 _”You'll never be anything if you don't stop daydreaming!”_  
  
Nothing. That was what he felt. Nothing.  
  
Feeling numb he turned to join the line for the Floo, curling his fingers around his bag strap to keep them occupied. He could feel it rising within him, the mania, and it was coming for him like a hunter.  
  
If the mania came then the depression would follow, and he couldn't afford to battle that with the weekend ahead. Perhaps he could get it over with in one night, but the physical and emotional fallout would last for weeks.  
  
Eventually he made it to the front of the line and chucked in a knut for the charity box with one hand whilst throwing Floo powder with the other. He stepped in and called out his home address. As he flew, he thought about how he could sabotage the journey – stagger, smash himself up on the way. Then there'd be no wedding to get through. He could hurt himself badly by falling out of rhythm.  
  
But before he knew it, his boots had slammed into the grate in their living room, and he was home.  
  
Hermione was curled up on the sofa with her feet underneath her. She had the paper in hand and a cup of tea on the arm of the chair.  
  
“Hiya,” she called softly. “Good day?”  
  
He grunted his response and tapped the soot off his feet one by one. He moved into the hallway and hung his bag and cloak up, then bent down to undo his laces. As he did his thigh began to throb.  
  
“I was thinking we could have a takeaway tonight?” Hermione said. “Start the weekend off nicely? I also got some wine.”  
  
Ron bit back his moan. Alcohol wouldn't do him any favours.  
  
“I've got a bit of a headache,” he explained as he fell down on the sofa next to her. “Busy day. Painful day. I just want to sleep.”  
  
Hermione looked at him shrewdly and then sighed, chucking the newspaper on the floor. She turned towards him and put her hand on his forehead.  
  
“You're very warm.”  
“Have been all day. But can't be ill, god forbid one of us miss the other's wedding.”  
“Even if you were dead it would probably still be easier to wheel you there than let your mother see you miss it,” Hermione agreed with a smile. “Here.” She handed him her half-drunk cup of tea. “Still warm.”  
  
She carded her fingers through his hair and leant in to kiss his cheek. She smelt of the remains of her favourite perfume and a slight whiff of mustiness.  
  
“Were you in the archives today?” Ron asked.  
“How did you know?”  
“I can smell books on you. More than usual, I mean.”  
  
They kissed. Hermione slid one hand down to rest over his crotch.  
  
“Hermione.”  
“I'll make you feel better,” she whispered, a seductive little smile on her face which she knew Ron was never able to resist. “C'mon... I've wanted you all day...”  
  
Ron drew breath as she reached under his work robes and crept her fingers over his inner thigh. Her fingertips grazed over the freshest scars and he froze, waiting for a reaction, but she carried on to his cock and grabbed it through his pants.  
  
“I know I used to laugh at you for not wearing anything under these,” she teased. “But now... I think it's really... hot. Because I can do this.”  
  
Ron didn't have much say in the matter as she pushed up the scarlet fabric and straddled his knees. She worked down his underwear and prised back his cock. It was hard even though Ron wasn't horny by any stretch – he couldn't remember the last time he'd cared about being hard, or been so uncomfortable that he had to have Hermione then and there.  
  
It was a miracle he was hard at all, but it helped him hide how he really felt. She sank onto him, hands on his shoulders, and tipped her hair back in pleasure as he filled her up. Eventually she looked back down at him and began to rock her hips. It felt good and Ron liked it, feeling her slide her cunt up and down his erection. But he knew he wasn't going to come and he hoped she wouldn't push the fact.  
  
“Ron...” her moan was a plea and it spurred him into action, cupping her breasts in his hands.  
  
He let them go to unbutton the front of her blouse and trace his fingers over the firm cups of her bra. It was his favourite. Silky to the touch but giving her a cleavage which could catch bread crumbs. He squeezed her and she moaned something else incoherent. Ron trailed his hands down her sides to grip her waist; he helped her to rock her hips.  
  
“I'm close,” she gasped, reaching down with one hand to rub herself whilst using the other to maintain balance on Ron's shoulder.  
  
He looked up at her. She was a vision. And he was an utter cunt for not being able to come from the pleasure she was giving him, or any pleasure for that matter. Just another way he fell short of everyone's expectations.  
  
It was rare to hear her swear, but as she clenched around him and buried her face in his hair, Ron could hear her chanting his name and cursing to herself.  
  
  
He smoothed his hands up her back and pulled her close to press a kiss to her belly. She laughed as his stubble tickled her and sat back.  
  
“You didn't-”  
“Well, there wasn't exactly much time, you were off like a-”  
“Sorry, I didn't mean to -”  
“Shh.” He gathered her hands and kissed them. “Don't worry about it. Like I said, I've got a headache and it's been a long day.”  
  
Hermione fixed him with a sad stare, as if she knew why he hadn't come and knew why he had no interest in fucking her. She reached up and stroked the side of his face.  
  
“Ron-”  
“So, dinner,” he said loudly. “What shall we have?”  
“Ron?”  
“I fancy Chinese.”  
“Ron.” His name was whispered. “Please. Please tell me what I can do.”  
  
He opened his mouth and then closed it again. Suddenly he was freezing cold and shattered.  
  
 _There it is. Oblivion._  
  
“I think I need to go to bed,” he murmured. “I need to... I need to sleep, Hermione.”  
  
She slid backwards off him. She held her hand out.  
  
“Let me put you to bed, then,” Hermione said softly. “Let me look after you, Ron.”  
  
She'd asked him the one thing which he had no idea how to do. He'd never let anyone look after him since leaving home, because when someone did, it only hurt all the more when they ended that care. He had worked hard to be the caregiver in their relationship. He hugged, he made endless cups of tea, he listened. He tried to be perfect – he tried hard to keep the side of him which was an utter dick hidden from everybody. Being honest had never got him anywhere as a teenager.  
  
He allowed her to pull him to his feet. He felt as weak as a kitten and he hated that.  
  
 _Fucking piece of shit._  
  
 _Useless, pathetic dickhead._  
  
Hermione led him silently to their bedroom and turned on the little light on his side of the bed. She turned to him and began unbuttoning his robes, pushing them off his shoulders and working them down his body. Hermione then turned back the duvet and gestured him in. Ron held his breath as she gently layered it over his body and tucked him in like he had seen her do with their nieces.  
  
“You know I'm here, don't you?” she asked suddenly. “And you'd tell me if anything was wrong?”  
  
 _I can't tell you what's going on inside my head._  
  
“Because I love you, Ron. I've loved you for a long time and I don't plan on stopping any time soon.”  
  
 _In the end, you'll leave too._  
  
He couldn't answer her. His throat was too tight and he didn't trust himself to speak.  
  
“Get some rest.” Hermione stroked his fringe away from his brow. “I'll see you in the morning. Come and find me if you... if you want to talk.”  
  
Ron accepted her kiss to the end of his nose and waited for her to close the bedroom door behind her before he exhaled. He felt dizzy and he'd not moved a muscle.  
  
The weekend was going to be a special kind of hell.  
  
***  
  
 _You look like shit._  
  
Ron tried to bat the thought away, but wearing his best Muggle suit he felt an idiot. Everyone else looked smart and stylish – he thought he stood out like a sore thumb. He was sure his tie was trying to strangle him.  
  
“You look _so_ good,” Hermione muttered, pressing against him under the guise of kissing his cheek. “I can't keep my hands off you. You should wear a suit more often.”  
  
Her hands crept around the back of his suit jacket and pulled him close.  
  
Ron smiled for her and tried to make it look genuine. He kissed her but was glad when the announcement came for them to take their seats and await the imminent arrival of the bride.  
  
“Here we go.” He tried to sound excited about it.  
  
The racket from the crowd was hurting his still-aching head and there would be no escaping it. He was bone tired and barely there, his mind happy to drift off to think of nothing without much provocation.  
  
He couldn't afford to be careless though – not on George's wedding day of all days.  
  
The reason that they were all in Muggle dress was the couple's choice. George had always loathed official wizarding robes and Angelina had decided she wanted to wear the dress her mother had worn on getting married. Given their huge party and the lack of any magical space to hold such an event of both magical and Muggle relatives, they'd opted for a large hotel in Muggle London, which was far fancier than any of his other siblings' wedding venues so far.  
  
Their mother wasn't happy – and Godric only knew Auntie Muriel had made her feelings known – but they were all there, awaiting the bride, and Ron only hoped that the rest of the day would go as quickly as it had so far.  
  
He'd felt like death on waking up. It had been so tempting to curl up and pull the duvet over his head and say he was ill. He'd done it before, just never for something as momentous as a wedding. By determinedly putting foot in front of the other he'd made it to the ceremony.  
  
He was fighting to keep his eyes open, but he was upright.  
  
“Here we go,” Hermione echoed expectantly as the music suddenly changed.  
  
Ron took a moment to look at her. Her face was alight with joy. She already looked to be wet-eyed.  
  
“What?” she whispered, realising that he was staring at her.  
“You're beautiful, Hermione.”  
  
Her joy visibly tripled and she squeezed his hand.  
  
“I love you,” he added.  
  
***  
  
“What a beautiful ceremony!”  
  
Ron sat slouched in his seat listening to his least favourite Aunt wax lyrical about the wedding she'd been whinging about for months. He was too tired to be amused by her hypocrisy like he might normally have been. He was waiting for her comments to turn to him – apart from Charlie (who, according to his mum, Muriel had long since given up on expecting to ever get married) – he was the last unmarried Weasley child as of the second that George's marriage bond was sealed.  
  
“And the bride, so lovely. My tiara, you know. Goblin made.”  
  
 _That fucking tiara._  
  
“Still, it's not done its duty yet I dare say. Still one to go.”  
  
Ron could just see the look on her face.  
  
“Whenever that one stops acting the fool and goes through with it, that is.”  
“That's me,” Ron said to himself under his breath. “The family idiot.”  
  
He stroked his thumb over the glass of champagne he held. He knew drinking wouldn't help anything, but it was too tempting when there were whole trays of the stuff being wafted around by the serving staff and he so desperately wanted something to take the edge off.  
  
He really wanted to cut, but he'd made himself leave the knife at home. His brother's wedding wasn't the place for such darkness. So drinking it was. It was his third glass but he'd had a lot to eat, so he wasn't too worried.  
  
“Hey.” It was Charlie who fell into the empty seat next to him. “How're you holding up?”  
  
Ron grunted in response and sipped his drink. Charlie laughed and nodded.  
  
“I know. All a bit too much, isn't it?”  
  
“You know, I did tell Molly to get him _checked_ ,” Auntie Muriel said emphatically, her voice rising above the din. “You know. To check that Ronald wasn't mentally retarded. His magic came through so late compared to the others... we should've known that was going to be the precedent. I sometimes wonder what would have become of him had it not been for Potter and her, you know. The Muggleborn. I think he'd be working in a dive somewhere, as poor as his father. I'm completely stunned he's made the success of himself that he has.”  
  
Ron made the mistake of catching Charlie's eye and the pity he saw there made him want to stab himself. Hatred, burning and visceral, filled him up to the very tips of his fingers. It must have shown on his face.  
  
“Don't listen to the old hag,” Charlie muttered out of the corner of his mouth. “She doesn't know what planet she's on, Ron. And she certainly doesn't have any clue about you.”  
“Did you ever wonder if I was mentally retarded?” Ron ground out.  
“Of course I fucking didn't!” Charlie cried. “None of the others could beat me on a chess board at the age of seven. Seven!”  
  
 _He has to say that. He's your brother. You're shit._  
  
Ron slid his chair back abruptly and got to his feet.  
  
“Are you-”  
“I'm fine,” he lied. He set down his champagne as gently as he could on the table and picked up his jacket. “I just need some air. I'll be back in a minute.”  
“I'll come with you.”  
“No, Charlie. I just need... a minute alone. See you in a sec.”  
  
He knew as he shrugged back into the jacket he hated and loosened his tie at his throat that he wasn't going back. He managed to slip out of the ballroom where the reception was being held without being seen which was a miracle in itself. He walked without aim, but as soon as he found an empty corridor he pulled his wand out and Apparated.  
  
Their house was still, silent and cool compared to the hubbub he'd left. He rolled his neck in a circle and something popped. The pain felt good.  
  
He, on the other hand, felt dangerous. Something destructive was coursing through his veins, brought on by his Aunt's criticisms and the merriment of the wedding. He wasn't happy. He wasn't successful. He couldn't even marry the girl he'd been in love with for years.  
  
Ron walked into the kitchen and trailed his fingers over the worktop. He wanted to destroy something. To end something to match how destroyed he felt inside.  
  
And as if someone had turned it on, he was raging. Screaming hoarsely from the depths of his throat and punching everything he could reach – the cabinets, the worktops, himself. He staggered as he smashed his head into a cupboard door, pausing only momentarily to pay attention to the stars which popped into his vision. He pulled it open and sent the contents – their plates and bowls – smashing onto the floor. The sound of them shattering both hurt his head and invigorated his rage further.  
  
He wanted it all to stop. To stop feeling. To stop hurting.  
  
Ron felt something damp and warm sliding down his face. He touched the spot and his fingertips came away red. The sight of his own blood, as it usually did, calmed him slightly. It was real – it was proof of how fucked up he felt inside. It wasn't enough, though – soon the peace was dampened out by the fire of madness inside him and he left the kitchen, looking for something else to destroy.  
  
Time seemed to lapse as he made his way through the house. He was suddenly in the bathroom, looking at the cabinet over the sink. His fingers were prying it open before the thought had properly registered in his mind. He was rummaging through the bottles and items there, looking for the one thing that he knew could save him. It was a heavy sedative that he'd been prescribed some time ago after a bad accident at work.  
  
He unscrewed the bottle and necked three mouthfuls. It tasted as the user wanted, so to him the medicine tasted of sweet strawberries and vanilla ice cream. He chased it down with two more gulps to be safe, and then he noticed that the bottle was nearly empty, so thought he might as well finish it for the sake of using it up. His vision started to blur. The blood on the side of his face was heavy and sticky.  
  
Ron staggered against the door frame and let it take his weight.  
  
He looked down the bottle in his hand and only realised then that he'd drank the majority of a bottle of which he was only meant to have half a teaspoon per night. It wasn't the thought of dying which upset him – it was the fact that he'd done it in their home. That if he died, Hermione would have to live with the reality that her fiancé had killed himself there.  
  
He laughed to himself that he couldn't even kill himself properly. A stray thought crossed his mind that he could make himself sick and that might stop some of the potion, but as he lurched into their bedroom, the idea of never feeling anything again was far too appealing to do that.  
  
Oblivion over vomiting.  
  
The end over everything.  
  
Ron fell face-first into their bed still holding the bottle, still dressed in the suit he hated. He was too tall and his feet dragged on the floor in the expensive shoes which had given him three blisters as the day had worn on.  
  
And they were all there, back at the party of the year, probably not even noticing that he was gone.  
  
He thought himself pathetic for being so melancholy. He could just man up, deal with the fact he was nobody's favourite person but everybody's favourite disappointment. But it had been killing him for years. That his mother's love for each of her other children was more than she loved him. That Hermione's love of Harry was completely different and more complex than how she loved him. And that Harry held a greater love for his sister than for him – this was something Ron had never uttered aloud to a single soul.  
  
He knew very young that he wasn't like other people. That he felt the same level of attraction and affection for everyone – boys, girls, adults, other children. But he'd never known how to process it or what it was. _Why_ he felt that way.  
  
He looked for any port in a storm. Any love he could get. And therefore, in consequence, was hurt by everybody too, no matter how much he tried to hide it. And he was so afraid of losing people that somehow he managed to alienate them first – pushing them away for his own safety.  
  
If there was a name for what was wrong with him, Ron didn't know it. He'd never bothered to look, not particularly feeling that a label would help straighten anything out. He certainly didn't want the media to know he was mentally unwell. They'd have a field day. And his family... well. It would just confirm his status as the family let down. _The boy who couldn't live up to anything._  
  
Harry Potter was the Boy Who Lived, and at that moment, Ron realised that he was content to be the Boy Who Died. Not nobly or in any way valiantly, but enough to solve the problem.  
  
The room started to spin around him and Ron closed his eyes. He clutched at the bottle.  
  
 _Please, Merlin. Let this kill me. Please._  
  


* * *

  
  
I'm not dead. I'm not _fucking_ dead. What the fuck? Oh god. Now I have to face everyone and why – why couldn't it have worked? I don't want to explain to them. They'll never understand. Everyone will leave me.  
  
Fuck.  
  
Fuck.  
  
Fuck.  
  


* * *

  
  
“Keep him as calm as you can. Rest is key. He's beyond exhaustion.”  
  
Ron heard the words as if through a thick fog. They echoed and twisted in his mind until they confused him, providing too much stimulation for his tired brain.  
  
There were footsteps and doors opening and closing. He didn't know where he was. The voices came back, louder this time and he listened to them.  
  
“Thanks for staying, Charlie.”  
“Like I was going to leave and let you deal with this alone.”  
“I.. well. Your mum didn't stay.”  
“She didn't mean what she said, she was just upset.”  
“I hope so, because otherwise being more angry that George's wedding, which was over by the time we found him, was ruined than about Ron nearly dying... that's...”  
  
There was a marked silence and Ron tried not to panic. His mother was angry. Perhaps they were all angry. Hermione... she should _hate_ him, surely?  
  
“She'll regret ever saying that when she's calmed down,” Charlie said soothingly.  
  
Warm hands picked up Ron's left hand and started to rub it. “He's still so cold.”  
“He's going to be okay, Hermione.”  
“I know. I know. But... the pain he must have been in to do that. I can't bear it. I knew something was wrong, I've known something was wrong for even as much as a year! I could have stopped this. He wouldn't have done it if he'd not been so afraid to talk about it-”  
  
He had to stop her. That she was blaming herself for it was too much. It was his fault, and his sheer idiocy.  
  
“Not... your... fault.” His mouth felt like sandpaper.  
  
They fussed over him, Ron didn't know how long for, just that by the end of it he was sitting upright and all three of them were in tears. It felt odd to cry openly in front of them, when for so long it had been his own private way of getting the emotion out.  
  
“I'm so glad you're awake,” Hermione whispered, using her fingertips to wipe away the tears running down his cheeks. “That you're still here.”  
“I'm sorry,” Ron said, only realising how loaded and tense the words were after it was too late to take them back. “I'm so fucking sorry.”  
  
Hermione held him as he broke into a series of painful sobs. He hid his face, not wanting Charlie to see, but he felt the bed dip as Charlie sat down on it and squeezed his knee.  
  
“I d-don't know what's wrong with me,” he snivelled miserably into Hermione's shoulder. “I've tried to get better and I can't. I didn't want to tell you in case you...”  
“In case what?” Hermione whispered.  
“In case you left me.” Ron felt sick to the pit of his stomach.  
  
Hermione pulled back and held him at arm's length. She shook him slightly.  
  
“I'm not going anywhere.”  
  
Ron instantly didn't believe her. Once she saw what he was _really_ like – what he'd been protecting her from for all those years – she'd be out of the door in a flash.  
  
“I'm not,” she insisted, and Ron knew his scepticism was showing on his face.  
“I wish I was dead.” It was all he could say and knew he owed them more, or at least felt like they deserved more, but it was the hollowness inside which forced him to be honest.  
“Well, I'm glad you're not.” Hermione took a moment to steady herself. Ron could see what it was costing her not to fall apart.  
  
Ron found himself overcome with appreciation and love for the intelligent, kind woman sitting in front of him.  
  
“We should have taken you to the hospital, but we knew you wouldn't like it. So I got my friend to come and see you – the one that works in the triage department. She's purged the... potion you took from your body. You're going to be fine, you just need to rest.”  
“I'm not going to be fine.” Ron shook his head. “You don't know what it's like in my head, Hermione. I'm mad. Insane.”  
“Well if you are, then we'll find someone who can help you. Who can heal you.”  
  
Ron thought that nobody – Wizard, Muggle or otherwise – would be able to sort through the tangles of thoughts and feelings in his brain.  
  
Hermione embraced him again and started to stroke his hair. She made soft shushing noises into his ear and even rocked him slightly in her arms.  
  
“Mum was angry?” Ron sniffed.  
“She was upset,” Charlie corrected. “And once the champagne's out of her system she'll be disgusted with herself for what she said.”  
“She thinks I ruined the wedding.”  
“Which you didn't, because the wedding was over. And not a minute too soon, because you would have died had we not found you when we did.”  
“Should have left me.”  
  
Seemingly neither Charlie nor Hermione could respond to that. He heard both of them sniff hard and closed his eyes.  
  
“I don't want you to see me... see what I'm like. What I do.”  
“What do you do?” Charlie asked gently.  
“I cut myself.”  
  
From the lack of a sharp intake of breath from Hermione, Ron had it confirmed what he'd always suspected – that she'd already seen the scars.  
  
“I just wanted you to tell me,” she admitted. “I wanted to ask but I was scared...”  
  
Panic started to rise again. She was already afraid of him. How would she react the next time he lost his temper?  
  
“Scared that you might shut me out,” she hurried on. “That you wouldn't tell me even when I asked you to, and that would be so much worse...”  
  
Ron suddenly felt overwhelming tiredness washing over him. As always – after an extreme outburst of emotion came the shut down, where he could barely even talk. For some years he'd been dealing with those periods alone.  
  
“I need to lie down,” he whispered.  
  
What he felt, Ron realised as they helped him to settle in the bed, was cherished. They were so gentle with him, so kind. Hermione stayed by his side and stroked his hair. It was so _good_ to be so openly loved. He nearly groaned with pleasure when a loving kiss caressed his forehead.  
  
 _You're a manipulative bastard._  
  
Had he done it for this – for their love and sympathy? Had he done it because he knew it would make them pay attention?  
  
It flickered across his mind that when he'd swallowed the sedative all he'd really thought about was not feeling any more pain. Not what might happen if the attempt was unsuccessful.  
  
“I love you, Ron.” The whisper was sweet and full of warmth, but he didn't have the energy to reply with a direct response of assurance. He wanted to, dearly.  
“You should go,” he managed to get out. “It'd be better for you. Just... leave me, and go.”  
  
Hermione didn't answer him that time, but she gave him a squeeze and another kiss.  
  
“I'm not a nice person,” he insisted. “I'm a... shit boyfriend. Shit friend. Shit son. Shit brother.”  
“Do you really believe that?” Hermione asked, not hiding her incredulity well. “Because I don't.”  
“I don't either,” Charlie put in, re-entering the room with some mugs of tea – Ron didn't remember him leaving. “I happen to think you're one of the best brothers anyone could ask for. The amount of times you've mopped me up.”  
  
Shaking his head in disagreement hurt and Ron wished he'd not bothered. Charlie resumed his spot on the side of the bed.  
  
“Eat this.” Charlie shoved some chocolate at him.  
  
It felt beautifully childlike to have Hermione snap up the bar into squares and feed him them, one at a time. He tried himself but his fingers shook so much that he gave up and let her continue instead.  
  
Surprisingly, he did feel better for having some sugar inside of him.  
  
“Who knows?” he asked suddenly, stomach lurching. He saw a dark look shared between Charlie and Hermione.  
“Have you ever known mum to keep quiet when she's upset about something?” Charlie asked delicately. “No? Well. Quite. I think everyone knows in the family, but it doesn't matter, Ron. You need support.”  
“Then where are they?” Ron heard the bitterness in his voice.  
  
He didn't want a weeping party around his bed – that would have made him feel immeasurably worse. But the thought of his entire family knowing what state he was in and not trying to make contact... that hurt.  
  
“I chucked them out.” Charlie met his eye. “I didn't think a crowd would do you any favours, so I made everyone that was here shut up and go home.”  
  
Ron nodded miserably and looked away.  
  
“Hey.” Charlie put a hand on his shoulder and shook it. “They care, Ron. And you deserve to be cared about. So whatever's going on in that brain of yours, ignore it.”  
  
Ron wanted to argue – to point out that if it was so easy to do that, he wouldn't be in the state he was currently in. But Charlie was only trying to help, and he was there and he cared, and Ron didn't want to do anything to jeopardise that. Instead he sat back up and yawned a shuddering yawn.  
  
“You need rest,” Hermione protested.  
“I know,” Ron promised. “I know.”  
  
They both looked at him with wide, worried eyes. Frustration consumed him, and he had no idea how to move forward.  
  


* * *

  
  
How can you feel dizzy when you're perfectly still? How can emotions that everybody feels be so large and exhausting that you suddenly find you can no longer function? How can it be one way, then another, without ever really being able to catch your breath in the middle?  
  
Am I up? Am I down? Am I ever going to make sense of this madness?  
  
Am I ever going to scream loud enough, cut deep enough, hate myself hard enough to make this stop?  
  
Why can't I cope? Why can't I be normal?  
  
Why can't I believe that I am a good person, a kind person, a loved person?  
  
Help.  
  
 _-fin-_


End file.
